


Those Other Guys Aren't Worth You

by Teland



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Breathplay, Choking, Daddy Kink, Emotional Manipulation, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hand Jobs, M/M, Poorly negotiated BDSM, Rough Oral Sex, Sex Pollen, breath play, teaching kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-11-24 09:41:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18163559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: In which self-awareness doesn't save anyone.





	Those Other Guys Aren't Worth You

**Author's Note:**

> I started this one... fuck only knows how many years ago. It was pretty late in my DCU days, but still at least a year before I actually left the fandom. This one stalled and stalled hard, though, and there was nothing I could do to get it going again, despite the fervent encouragement of loved ones. Chances are, it was just too dark for where my mind needed to be.
> 
> This one does *not* end especially abruptly, but it's pretty clear that it's not finished... let that be a warning, too.

"Let's you and me play a game, chicken." 

The voice --

The clothes -- 

The sunglasses -- 

The... accessory, bouncing and rolling from one corner of Bruce's mouth to the other. 

Matches' mouth. It -- well. There's a temptation to spend a moment trying to discern what *precisely* is going on -- there were no mentions of undercover work recently, it's nearly dawn, and Matches is in his *bedroom* -- but. 

Training never ends. Tim sits up -- 

Matches cups Tim's chin and makes him sit straighter, taller, off-balance -- "Mm. You're already ready for me, aren't ya. Already..." And Matches licks his lips. 

And that -- "I'm always ready," Alvin says, with as much of a sneer as he can manage with Matches' *paw* on his face --

"Yeah, baby boy? That so?" 

"*Fuck*, yeah -- hey --" And Tim is proud of that 'hey' -- it's not something *he* would say, even if Matches *did* do something like yank him out of bed and start frog-marching him to the door. "*Easy*, Matches, I'm comin' --" 

"Not yet, you aren't," Matches says, and gives him a push into the hall. 

And that -- really. Tim has known since the *beginning* of his undercover training that Bruce picks interesting and *odd* ways to make jokes, but -- really. Alvin perfects his sneer. "Talk is cheaper than that rag you call a *jacket*," he whispers -- 

And Matches shows his teeth. "Maybe I was just bein' patient-like, chicken," he says. In his *normal* voice -- no. It's *louder* than his normal voice --

Tim's heart is in his throat --

Matches smiles *broadly* -- and points to Tim's parents' bedroom door. Their *open* bedroom door. Their -- 

"What --" 

"Take a look, baby boy. Ol' Matches ain't in a hurry. *Much*." 

And the glitter of those eyes over the sunglasses -- well, that was the sort of lie which tends to mean pain, suffering, and abject terror when it's directed at people on the street. *Not* at him. Tim narrows his eyes.

And Matches licks his lips again. "Yeah. That's what I want. That's *who* I want, chicken." 

"What --" 

"Go. Take. A. *Look*." 

Loud voice. *Harsh* voice -- Tim knows what he's going to find. He knows *exactly* what he's going to find, and right now he needs to know what that *means* -- 

Except that Matches is raising his eyebrows -- and his hands -- like he's about to start moving Tim bodily again. He -- okay. Tim can play by his rules for the moment. He can -- 

He can walk the few steps down the hall, and he can open his parents' door further, and he can -- 

Well, at least they're still there and positioned *comfortably*. It's -- 

Tim shakes his head and moves quickly and quietly into the room, plucking the darts from his father's upper arm and back and from Dana's neck and thigh. The red tape on them suggests formulation H-5, which -- "Does the word *overkill* mean anything to you?" 

"Didn't wanna get interrupted, chicken," Matches says, from the *doorway*, and that -- 

Tim growls a little, lifting the darts between them. "This is crossing the line, *Bruce*." 

Matches pushes the sunglasses down his nose. "Think you wanna watch your mouth --" 

"*I* think *you* want to come up with some explanations before I take another vacation to *Asia*." 

Matches -- Bruce? -- growls like an *animal*, standing and *hulking* in the doorway like -- 

Well, he's huge, of course, but he's always been -- 

And he's always been *fast*, too, faster than *Tim* is, and that's why he's pressed to the wall between his parents' windows with his feet dangling at least a foot off the *floor* -- 

Matches' hand is around his *throat* -- 

And the last bits of sleep-fog -- the ones Tim wasn't *aware* of -- blow away entirely. Just -- "Matches," Tim says, and of course it's more a breath than anything else, of course -- 

"Yeah, chicken? You got something to say to me...?" And that -- Matches' voice is low, easy, calm -- conversational. 

It's just his eyes that are -- not. 

Really profoundly not. 

"I think --" No. Bad start. Tim licks his lips -- 

Matches *narrows* his eyes -- 

His sunglasses are *broken* in the *doorway* -- and Tim knows exactly how to talk people down from assorted chemical highs. Doesn't he? "I apologize." 

"Do ya...?"

"I wasn't thinking," Tim says, and lets *all* of his desire to make it out of this -- whatever this will turn out to *be* -- alive into his eyes. 

Matches shows his teeth again. "Scared little chicken." 

"Yes." 

"You shouldn't be scared of ol' Matches," he says, and loosens his grip. *Slightly*. 

Well. "No...?" That was practically a *whistle*, but at least there was *some* sound -- "I... have my doubts about that." 

Matches chuckles -- and pushes his free hand up Tim's loose shield-of-El t-shirt. His hand doesn't seem feverish, but the palm is somewhat more damp than Tim is used to from Matches -- 

Or Bruce -- 

Or *Brucie* --

But Matches is the one petting him. Stroking him, and -- 

Rubbing Tim's right nipple with his callused thumb. He -- 

"M-Matches..." 

"You should never..." Matches licks his lips and *pinches* Tim's nipple -- 

It's *reflex* to hold in the gasp -- 

And Matches growls again. "Don't do that." 

"I -- I don't --" 

"Make *noise* for me, chicken," Matches says, and pinches Tim's nipple again -- 

Tim *grunts* -- 

"Yeah. Yeah, like that." And Matches licks his lips and moves closer, *crowds* Tim against the wall -- 

His cologne is --

It's the wrong cologne. It's -- it's not one of *Brucie's*, but it's one of Bruce's. He tends to wear the _St. Georges_ when he's going in for a *long* day at WE, and --

And the darts were, of course, Batman's. 

At what point *will* Brucie show up to this particular event? *How* will he show up? What will --

And then he's grunting again -- 

Grunting and *moaning* -- 

Matches is *holding* the pinch to his nipple, and that -- 

It's something Tim only does when he's trying to masturbate as quickly -- and *roughly* -- as possible -- 

And Matches' gaze is focused on him. He looks -- the amusement is there, but there's so much -- 

Tim can't call that anything but hunger. "Matches... please." 

Matches parts his lips -- 

The stick starts to *fall* -- 

And he catches it between his bared teeth. "Baby boy. Where'd you go?" 

When dealing with an irrational and potentially-drugged assailant, it's often better to be as honest as possible. To *appear* to take the assailant into one's confidence -- 

"Talk to me. Tell me... mm." And Matches rubs Tim's nipple between his rough fingers -- 

Tim grunts *again* -- 

"Tell me everything..." 

"I was... thinking about your cologne," Tim says, *lightly* -- 

Matches looks down -- 

And *Bruce* looks up at Tim through his lashes, dark and sharp and -- hungry. 

It -- Tim doesn't moan again. It's just that he also doesn't bother trying to fool himself about Bruce not *hearing* it. This -- 

This is all of them. All right. "I'd like you to look at me again... directly," Tim says, and doesn't use any names -- 

And Matches looks up with a smile. "I can look at *you* all day, chicken. Pretty boy like you. But I think you want more than just a look. Don't ya." 

Tim -- stops himself from licking his lips. "I would also like to talk... for a little while."

*Slightly* narrowed eyes -- but Matches loosens his grip on Tim's throat a little more. A little -- 

Tim takes a *deep* breath -- and chokes on it when Matches uses his *body* to hold Tim against the wall and *licks* Tim's throat -- 

Again and again -- 

Sucks at Tim's *pulse* point -- 

And pulls back. "Tell me what you wanna talk about, chicken. I'll decide if I feel like it." 

Tim *pants* -- 

"Chop chop, now. Don't got much time for --" 

"Are you... busy this morning?" Just a *little* emphasis on *morning* -- 

Matches rolls the stick to the left corner of his mouth -- and sighs. "Never too busy for you. Never ever, chicken. But..." Another sigh. "A man's got needs."

Tim would like, very much, to have a lengthy, detailed discussion with his penis. There is no reason *whatsoever* for that sentence to have affected the thing that *much* -- 

Or at *all* -- 

Especially given how close Matches is to him. And how much they can *both* feel. "Matches --" 

"Chicken, chicken, *chicken*. Mm. Shoulda known a boy like you would respond to *that*," Matches says, and *smiles* -- not just bares his teeth. Not -- 

A boy like -- 

"Shoulda known..." And Matches stares at Tim's mouth and licks his lips. "Look how tight you just got. How *pinched*." He sucks his teeth and shakes his head. "Chicken. Gonna make me loosen you up? Gonna make me *open* you up?" 

Heat, all through him -- 

Heat *and* fear, and the two shouldn't *go* together -- 

Never -- 

Matches *growls*. "You like that idea," he says, *thoughtfully*. "All right, let's go." And he steps back, giving Tim just enough room to land on his toes, but *not* to get into a ready position. 

Of course not. *Bruce* is in there -- and so is Batman. "Matches. I think... we still have to talk --" 

"In your bedroom, baby boy. Where it *smells* like you," Matches says, and that -- that was barely more than *another* growl. 

"Matches --" 

"Unless you want me to start stripping right here...?" And -- Matches doesn't actually have to *say* that he will, or even start to shrug out of the awful, every-color-that-made-people-hate-the-seventies jacket. Everything in his *expression* says that he would. That he *will*. 

Tim... takes a breath. There's only so much his mind can take, and he's allowed to give himself room to cope. To -- to *think*, beyond his parents' unconscious bodies and the fact that his mentor and partner and *teacher* has decided that now is an excellent time to -- 

Right. 

He walks -- briskly -- out of his parents' bedroom and back into his own. 

He tucks the darts under trash in his wastebasket as a temporary measure. 

He breathes. 

He breathes. 

He *breathes*, dealing with the fact that they both know that there's nothing Tim can do *physically* to take the upper hand in this particular -- 

But he's not going to think that word. He turns around and -- deals with the fact that Matches -- and Bruce, and Batman, and who only knows who *else* -- is lounging on the left side of his bed in nothing but -- 

Grey boxer-briefs. 

Tim narrows his eyes at them -- 

And Matches chuckles and -- cups himself through them. 

Squeezes -- 

Squeezes his *erection* -- 

And Tim remembers that he has more to worry about, here, than verisimilitude just as Matches says -- 

"Wanted somethin' a little more exciting, chicken?" 

"I --" 

"So did I," Matches says, and squeezes *hard*. "Mm. But fair's fair. Now c'mere." 

"I -- talking --" 

"Take off your shirt."

"Matches --" 

"Do it now... and I'll let you ask me anything you want," Matches says, and *strokes* himself through the boxer-briefs -- 

Tim doesn't *stare* -- he takes off his shirt. 

"Good boy. Such a -- mm. You don't know what you *do* to me, baby boy. Heh. Yet. Now what do you wanna ask me?" 

Tim breathes -- quickly -- and drops his shirt between himself and the bed. "What are you dosed with?" 

Batman burns at him -- 

Bruce hums -- 

And Matches plucks the stick out and shrugs. "Who can say? You go out there in this wide, wild world... eh. Anything can happen, baby boy. Now what else do you need to know before you get that pretty little ass over here?" 

"What were you *doing*?" 

Matches rolls his head on his neck. "I think you'll find that that's *my* business." 

Well -- no. Tim raises an eyebrow. "I *am* your partner." 

Matches narrows his eyes. "You're my baby boy... and you need to follow orders a lot better than you do." 

Tim -- shivers. 

"Yeah. You know how this works. Now ask another question."

"At what point..." Tim shakes his head. "We would be taking advantage of each *other* if we were to have sex, Matches." 

"You sayin' you don't like that kinda thing, chicken?" 

"Ah." 

"You sayin' you don't lay up in this great, big bed and dream of *just* that?" 

That -- Tim narrows his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest. "I *don't* tend to dream of *rape*, Matches." 

The flash of *cold* -- *Batman* -- is a warning, but -- 

"Chicken, chicken, *chicken*. Didn't anybody ever teach you *not* to make declarative statements like that to people who know your tells?" 

Oh -- *fuck* --

But Matches doesn't move. He -- he dances the stick over his knuckles and looks Tim over hotly. 

*Appreciatively* -- 

"I think somebody *did* teach you that. I think... mm. I think you're not thinking as *clearly* as you *could* be, chicken." 

"Funny how that *works* --" 

"I'm gonna fuck you *hard*, chicken." 

Tim rears back --*steps* back -- 

"No. Come *here*." 

"B--" 

"*Watch* it -- or I get mean."

Tim growls and meets *Batman's* eyes, because they're right there. His and *no* one else's. His -- "You don't want to own this." 

"Who are you talkin' to --" 

"You don't want to *admit* this," Tim says, and lets himself snarl, lets himself tense a little *too* hard -- "You don't want --" 

"I *want*... exactly what I'm gonna *get*," and Batman fades out of Matches eyes. *Melts* out under the heat of lust, amusement, *greed* --

"Come *back* --"

"You think ol' Matches doesn't know what you want right now, chicken? You think he doesn't know what you'd feel most *comfortable* with?" 

Tim narrows his eyes *more* -- 

And Matches chuckles again and shakes his head. "Baby *boy*. It's my own fault, I know. Didn't give you *enough* of the real me when I was trainin' you up. Didn't teach you about the man who lived *inside* me --" 

"You're not -- he's not --" 

"Shh, now. Hush for a minute, chicken. We gotta understand each other if we're gonna have a good time, right? Right." And Matches spreads his thighs fractionally wider -- 

Lifts his hips -- 

He's so *hard* -- 

Tim looks *up* -- 

And Bruce is in the *starved* flash of his eyes, Bruce -- 

"You. You looked that way when *Jason* was alive!" 

The starved look *stays* for a long moment -- and then Matches chuckles again. "And for a while -- a good, *long* while -- after he died, too. Such a beautiful boy. Such a..." Matches shivers. "You thought that would stop me, didn't you. The magic word, maybe...?" 

Tim -- doesn't let himself look away. He just keeps meeting Matches' eyes and keeping himself steady, *steady* -- 

"Yeah, and you feel guilty for that, too. Part of me thinks you *should*, baby boy." 

The cold and fear for that -- 

It *should* be ridiculous at this point. It should be -- 

He's trying to *protect* himself -- 

"The rest of me is thinkin' about how hard you are. How -- mm. Such a *strong* little baby boy. So smart and -- heh. Ruthless," Matches says, and squeezes himself again. "Got me thinkin' about your *teeth* on my dick, baby boy --" 

Tim shakes his head before he can stop himself -- 

"Heh. Don't worry. I'll show you *exactly* how good that can feel. How *right*. A boy like you... mm. You think about bein' punished all the time, I bet. Bein' worked right over by a *good* man. A *hard* man. Someone even harder than you." Matches licks his lips. "I don't think you *have* any more questions in you. Not really. But go ahead and ask the ones you're about to make up on the spot. I can be patient for a boy like you." 

Tim feels himself *flush* -- 

"Not too patient, though. Not..." Matches takes a *shuddering* breath and cups his scrotum through the boxer-briefs instead, squeezing *viciously* hard --

"You're tempting me to punch you there." 

"With your pretty little mouth...? I can work with that," Matches says, and smiles with *lazy* pleasure. "C'mon, chicken. Impress me with how that mind works --" 

"Did it occur to you that I might *not* want to lose my virginity this way?" 

And there -- a pause. A moment's hesitation in the path of the stick from one corner of his mouth to the other.

Tim nods and loosens his stance. "Yes, *do* think about it --" 

Matches -- laughs. That's more than a chuckle. "That was good. That was..." He sighs and looks Tim *over*. "A *part* of me thought pride would get in the way of you usin' *that* weapon... but that would've only been the case with one of my *other* boys." 

Tim flushes -- no. "Perhaps you *should* be spending more time thinking about them." 

"And not you? The boy who calls out... somebody's name when he's jerkin' it? When he's doin' it hard and fast and oh-so-sweet?" 

"You may have noticed that the name I called wasn't *yours*." 

Matches licks his lips. "They're all mine, chicken. They're all *me*... when it gets right down to where things get sticky, anyway." And Matches smiles *slowly*. 

For a moment, Tim is ready to discard that as more of Matches' *self* -- but. 

But. 

"Are you saying that your sexuality --" 

"Is *mine*, chicken. Absolutely all of it. Sometimes I clean things up 'cause I'm too shy and buttoned-up for anything else. Sometimes I lock myself down and make the whole world suffer for it. Sometimes I get myself -- mm. *Good* and drunk --" 

"They're all -- you." 

Matches waggles his eyebrows. 

Tim stares. 

Matches *beckons* -- 

"No." 

"Chicken --" 

"*No*. Matches -- you. You didn't *exist* until --" 

"I was always here, chicken. Way down deep. Now c'mere and sniff my fingers." 

Tim's jaw drops -- 

And Matches chuckles again. "You think I haven't seen you sniffin' those pretty little suits? The cars? *Me* when I'm wearin' this cologne? Oh, *chicken*. You got a real animal side to ya. I like that." 

Tim *recovers* -- "Color. Me. Shocked." 

"Okay, I hear ya. What else ya got for me before I pop that little cherry of yours?" 

"I -- *Jesus* --" 

"And that's something you save for your brother. That's -- mm. Were you savin' your ass for him, too?" 

Think, think -- "Yes, as a matter of fact." 

Matches smiles, plucks the stick out, and tilts his head to the side. "That why you were callin' *my* name every time you fucked yourself?" 

Fuck -- "There's such a thing as fantasy." 

Matches nods with a mockery of thoughtfulness. It -- 

Tim can *feel* the next comment coming, and he doesn't know how to *derail* it -- 

"Fantasy... mm. Something you *don't* want to be real...?" 

Please -- "*Yes*, Matches. It's not the most *difficult* concept --" 

"Bitchy, *bitchy*..." And Matches licks his lips. "Think I'm gonna hurt ya first, baby boy." 

Tim *grunts* --

And Matches smile is broad and *wet*. "C'mere. Now." 

"No. We still have to work together --" 

"You sayin' you *can't* be professional...?"

Tim *stares* -- no, no --"We're *supposed* to be *more* than that --" 

"Yeah. We are. A *lot* more -- and that's what we're gonna have --" 

"Rape, however *pleasant* for fantasy purposes, does *not* lead to --" 

"Chicken. You don't know me, at all, do you." And there is -- 

There is *more* in that voice than there had been, more than just Matches, more than just the man taking over Tim's bed and asking -- 

Demanding -- 

Tim studies his *eyes* -- and finds Bruce's starvation. Bruce's -- Tim steps back. "Don't --" 

"You think I don't need you, chicken?" 

"You need to sober *up* --" 

"You think I watch that footage just to get *off*?"

What. Tim swallows and -- make the assailant talk. Distract -- "Why. Why do you watch?"

Matches parts his lips -- and bares his teeth. "Gotta know you, baby boy. Gotta. Gotta know every little thing about you. *Have* every little thing about you. Every *moment*," he says, and that -- 

His voice -- "B--" 

"*No*," Matches says, and growls. "C'mere. C'mere and lemme show you how I take care of my beautiful boys. Lemme show you how *good* I can be to my beautiful --" 

"I'm not *yours*!" 

Another growl -- and Matches cups himself again. "Think I don't know that? Look at you. Living up in this pretty little townhouse with a man who hasn't known who you were since you were three years old -- *if* he knew you then -- and a woman you lie to because she's too *nice* for the truth." 

Tim stiffens hard and flushes *harder* -- 

And Matches nods. "Yeah. *I* know you, baby boy. I know you *just* enough to know I want more. *Need* more. You *left* me." 

"I -- you --" 

"You left me high and *dry*. Heh. But that's my fault, too, isn't it, chicken?" 

Tim has no idea what to *say* --

He's -- 

He isn't quite *clutching* himself, but --

"Yeah. It is," Matches says, plucking the stick out again and tossing it. "I made you think it was *okay* for you to leave me. Made you think it was just *fine* for you to walk up out of my home -- *our* home -- leavin' nothin' but your *footprints*. And we both know how long those last in that place, yeah?" 

Tim -- shakes his head -- 

And Matches looks him over again. "Heh. That was a yeah. I know it was. I know *you* -- and I know you're startin' to think about it. How big it is over there. How dark and cold and *empty* it is without a pretty little baby boy to fill it up just right --" 

"I don't -- I *don't* --" 

"Now. Heh." Matches licks his lips and grins like a *predator*. "You thinkin' about how quiet you are, chicken? How *small*, maybe? You thinkin' you're not *like* my other boys?" 

Tim shudders and just -- he doesn't -- no. "I would... be more than willing to call Dick --" 

"Yeah, he'd help me out right about now. He's always been a *good* boy. A *loving* boy --" 

Tim fights back a *wince* -- 

He can't possibly be -- 

No, he moves for his *comm*, and for a moment he can't *remember* what compartment he put it in, can't decide which way to *turn* in his room, in his head -- 

And Matches is pressed to his back, just that fast. Matches is warm and close and *holding* him -- 

Breathing hot against Tim's *scalp* -- 

Tim feels himself break out in goosebumps and he can't, he can't --

He doesn't *want* to press back against Matches -- 

He was *looking* for his *comm* -- 

Matches isn't even holding him that *tightly*. One hand on his hip and the other arm wrapped around his chest. Wrapped *loosely* -- 

He's so *big* --

"Baby boy..."

Tim hears himself make a *noise* --

And Matches exhales with a shudder. "Missed you bad. Missed you so bad I hated you sometimes, baby boy. Heh. Part of me, anyway."

"I --" 

"Shh, don't say a word. Just think of me lying up all alone in that big ol' bed. Think of me *straining* to hear the sound of you breathing, moaning, *moving* -- anything. Think of me *remembering* you weren't there... and remembering that I couldn't just come *get* you." 

"You *could've*!" And for a moment there's only silence, heavy and empty and *dark* -- 

And then Matches laughs, low and heavy and *just* as dark. "Well, whaddaya know, chicken? I figured that out, too," he says, and strokes down Tim's chest -- 

His abdomen -- 

He *cups* Tim through his sleep-boxers -- "No sound for that? I'm disappointed." 

"I'm --" 

"Shh. Don't apologize, baby boy. It's my fault, remember? I haven't done you *right*, yet." 

Tim pants and -- 

Tim pants and tries to think, to focus, to *plan* -- and fails at all of the above, because Matches is squeezing him -- 

Working him -- 

"You don't know what it's like just to have you in my hand, chicken..." 

Tim feels himself flushing *harder* -- 

"You don't know how bad I've needed *just* this," he says, and strokes up from Tim's hip with his other hand -- 

*Pauses* at Tim's nipple but only *pets* -- 

And then he's petting Tim's mouth, pressing on Tim's lips -- 

Tim can smell -- 

Tim breathes *deeply* before he can *think* -- 

And Matches chuckles. "Good boy. Do that again." 

"I --*mm* --" Fingers *pressed* to his mouth -- 

"Shh, just... sniff. The way you want to. The way we *both* want you to." 

Tim shudders -- and sniffs. And -- 

And then he does it again, and again -- 

Matches' scent is Bruce's, of course. The cologne on his wrist and the salt of his fingers -- 

The --

The *sex*, and he's never *had* the scent of Bruce's penis before, never been close enough, never *dared* -- 

"Yeah, you wanted this. I know. I *knew*." 

Then why didn't you -- 

"Those other parts of me..." Matches sighs and bites Tim's ear -- 

"*Mm*!" 

"Those other parts of me can put a real *crimp* in my *dick*, baby boy. They can keep me from doing what I want. What I *need*. But not now." 

And not ever again? Where *exactly* does Tim fall on the hope-fear spectrum for *that* right now? 

Matches is still -- still *molesting* him -- 

And Tim is still sniffing. Still -- 

"Whatcha say, baby boy? Want something to suck on?" 

Tim squeezes his eyes shut and feels -- 

The air feels *cold* on his cheeks, and that means he's as flushed as he's ever been, as *embarrassed* -- 

He's not embarrassed enough. It's not -- "*MM*!" 

And Matches holds the squeeze of his penis, holds it -- 

His hand is so *big* -- 

His calluses are *rasping* against the cotton of Tim's boxers -- 

It feels -- 

He's going to start trying to thrust into Matches' fist in a moment. He's going to -- 

And he won't stop, he won't *stop*, because the hand is familiar and not, the hand has always -- 

"*No* -- oh -- *fuck* --" 

Matches chuckles and strokes Tim's lips with his fingertips -- 

Tim *inhales* -- 

"Good boy. You gonna say yes to me, chicken?" And he starts squeezing Tim's penis *rhythmically* --

He drags Tim's lower lip out of true -- 

"You gonna give us what we both want?" 

Tim wants to beg. He wants -- but you're not supposed to -- 

Control is *important* when the assailant is both physically dangerous and at least somewhat *out* of control. It's *vital*. It's -- 

It's the difference between life and *death* -- 

And Matches laugh is breathy and low and almost *sweet*. "Shoulda known you'd be able to keep thinking even with me doing *this*," he says, and squeezes *hard* -- 

Tim gasps and *tenses* --

"Is that a yes, baby boy? A maybe? You're leaking too much for it to be a no..." 

"I'm -- I'm fifteen years *old*!" 

"Wish you were still thirteen, chicken --" 

"*Fuck* --" 

Matches laughs again and tugs -- not pulls -- Tim back against him. *Holds* Tim against him --

He's so --so *big*, so -- 

Tim can feel him breathing against the top of his *head* -- 

Tim can feel his *penis* --

"Wish you were... mm. Just as small and young and sweet and *tender* --" 

"Should I be finding you a *middle*-schooler?" 

Another laugh -- "Only if he's just like you, chicken."

"I -- nnh --" 

"*Really*. You never stroke yourself *this* way," Matches says, and his tone is curious, *inviting* as he works Tim's penis almost *gently* in his squeeze -- 

Almost -- Tim never has the *control* for that -- 

"Mm. You're breathin' hard for ol' Matches. You're..." Matches sighs against Tim's temple and *licks*. "You're startin' to *sweat*." 

"Sex -- sexuality is -- it's --" 

"It's *perfectly* normal, chicken. Right and proper, even," and Matches strokes faster for a moment -- 

Another -- 

And then he slows *down* and Tim whimpers -- much too loud. 

"Gorgeous little baby boy. Perfect --" 

"Thought -- I was too *old* for you --" 

"Never. I just wish I'd fucked you years ago." 

"You -- that --" 

"Wish I... mm." And Matches *rocks* against the small of Tim's back -- 

Tim whimpers *again* -- 

"Wish I'd dragged you into my bedroom and done ya in the dark, baby boy. *Worked* you in the dark," he says, and squeezes again -- 

Tim doesn't *beg* -- 

"Fucked you hard and long and *sweet* -- and turned you out so right that you never woulda *thought* about moving back in with *Drake*," Matches says, and the contempt in his voice -- 

The *rage* -- 

"You know you don't belong here, baby boy..." 

"I -- *fuck* -- oh, *fuck* --" 

"Yeah. It was time to touch your skin more. It was time... mm. Feel how slick you're gettin' for me? What does that make you think?" 

Tim pants and doesn't -- but -- "It's -- you're stimulating my... my *penis* --" 

"I'm *stroking* your *dick*." 

"Did you expect to get me to 'talk dirty', Matches?" 

And Matches grunts a laugh. "And that's enough to get your control back? Good to know -- and my own fault for not knowing my precious baby boy." 

"Precious -- *gah* --" And he's up in Matches' arms, cradled warm and held, held so close -- 

Matches is *gazing* down at him, and he is...

Without the sunglasses and the stick -- 

Without the cheaper cologne or the makeup that mimics self-tanner -- 

Without anything but the *mustache* and the *smile* -- and *with* all the moments of identity *slippage* -- it should be possible to stop *thinking* of him as Matches, stop *feeling* him as Matches, stop -- but he can't. 

And, in this moment, a part of Tim is only stuck on the *training* problem of it. The *challenge*: How can *he* manage this with his own identities? There *will* be times when Alvin Draper can't get to his goatee in time, or when Timmy Wayne won't have a truly perfect suit to rumple just so, or when Mr. Sarcastic can get his hands on neither fishnets nor fake ermine. This is -- 

Well, it's *impressive*, on a number of levels, and he is -- 

He is not paying attention to Matches staring at him. He is not -- 

Or he is, but it's -- 

The *greed* --

So much --

And it's for him, all for *him* in this moment, and there's no getting around it, no -- there's no way to escape even the realization that it's *not* the same expression Matches uses when he wants to *pretend* to be lustful, that -- 

He's never *seen* Bruce truly desire someone -- not with the cowl *off* -- and right now that seems -- too much. Too -- 

He should've *stayed* in the Cave one of the nights when there was new Catwoman footage -- or new *Nightwing* footage, for that matter. He should've -- he should've *imposed*, and isn't that what Matches has been saying? Isn't that what he's all but *willing* Tim to *believe*? 

Tim pants... and feels himself flushing hard. *Again* -- 

And Matches smiles. "There you are. Knew you'd find your way back to ol' Matches *eventually*," he says, and turns to carry Tim -- toward the bed. 

"Matches --" 

"Don't fight me, baby boy. Don't fight a *thing* --" 

"Are you saying that *wouldn't* arouse you?" 

Matches laughs. "I would *never* say *anything* like that -- ol' Matches ain't never gonna lie to you -- but." 

Tim swallows and just -- just -- "Don't do this." 

Matches sucks his teeth. "That's not what you wanted to say." 

"Matches --" 

"Shh," Matches says, and lays Tim down on the center of the bed. "You wanted to say somethin' different. You wanted to *ask* somethin'." 

Tim pants and -- no, he sits up -- 

And Matches stops him with one broad, warm, *faintly* damp hand on Tim's chest. *Splayed* on Tim's chest -- 

Tim's penis *twitches* --

"Mm. What you *do* to me..." And Matches *grins* and shakes his head. "Go on, baby boy. Ask the question you *wanna* ask." 

When -- an assailant -- 

"Give me that. Give me your *mind* again." 

Tim frowns and tries to -- his breathing is too ragged -- 

And Matches strokes up Tim's chest to his throat. He -- he *cups* -- "Do you need me to hurt you again? Would that make it right?" 

Tim hears himself make a sound like something -- something just as *weak* -- 

"Oh, baby boy. Sweet little... mm. Here, nice and easy," Matches says, and *grips* Tim's throat -- 

Tim can't make any sound, at all -- 

Tim's mouth is open and his *tongue* is sticking out --

Matches -- 

Matches' fingers are so *hard*, so strong, so -- 

Matches is staring into him and *studying*, *waiting* -- 

Matches is *panting*, and his mouth is wet -- he'd licked his lips. *When* had he licked his lips? Why -- how did Tim miss it? 

He has to pay attention. He has to focus. He has to keep --

He has to *breathe*, and of course he can't, he *can't*, but he also can't stop himself from *trying*. He's gasping and getting nowhere, *hitching* and -- 

Flushing so much --

He can't close his *mouth* all the way -- 

Matches' hand is so big, so -- 

But he has to fight, he has to hold on, has to --

Matches licks his lips -- 

Tim's penis twitches *violently* and he sways -- he doesn't -- 

Matches is holding him in position, holding him *still*, and he's still staring at Tim, still -- 

He's barely *blinking*, and that's Bruce, that's *Batman* -- but it's Matches' smile getting hotter and *hungrier*, it's Matches' *greed* again, and it's -- 

For him -- 

Tim's penis twitches *again* -- 

He can feel himself leaking *steadily* -- and there is black blooming at the edges of his vision, black filling his mind --

"No, not that, baby boy," Matches says, and loosens his *grip* -- 

"No --" 

"Breathe." 

"I don't -- I *don't* --" 

"Shh, baby boy. Breathe for me. Breathe just like I taught you." 

Tim groans -- and breathes. 

And breathes. 

And -- 

But Matches is choking him again, *gripping* him again, and Tim doesn't know --

He doesn't know what *look* is on his face, but it's making Matches narrow his eyes and moan, making --

He's rocking Tim back and *forth* by the grip on his throat, and he is so -- 

Matches can do anything -- to --

He's *always* been able to do anything, *always*, and Tim's known that since he was nine, since he realized that *this* was the man who brought Dick's smiles back, who made the screaming stop -- 

Tim wants to *scream*, to open, to -- 

He wants to *beg*, and he knows he isn't supposed to, that he isn't -- 

Never *break*, never *surrender*, and Matches didn't teach him that, but he should have, he -- but Matches wouldn't. Not ever. Matches wants him to stop fighting, to surrender *everything* for this touch -- 

For every touch -- 

"It'll hurt when I'm fucking you, too, baby boy..." 

Tim *spasms* -- 

Flails and reaches for Matches' forearm -- 

Strokes it, strokes it and holds it, so warm, so *warm* -- 

"That's right. That's just right. I'll give you what you need. I'll give you *everything* you need." 

Yes. He can do that, he could always -- 

Batman can -- 

Batman *needs* -- 

And Matches sighs and squeezes *harder* for a moment -- 

Tim *bucks* -- 

"Oh, baby boy..." Matches inhales sharply and licks his lips. "Those other guys... so smart they're stupid, you know? Real idiots to let you walk away. To let you get *anywhere* we couldn't reach out and... touch," he says, and starts stroking lazy patterns up and down Tim's inner thighs -- 

His thighs are *spread*, and that -- 

He can't --

He tries to bring them together again -- 

"No, baby boy. Gimme what I need." 

Tim *clutches* Matches' forearm -- 

"That's right. Now more." 

Black flowers, they're flowers, and Matches wants to give him a *bouquet* -- and then Tim is gasping -- 

"Shh, breathe." 

Tim nods and breathes, and breathes -- 

He can't focus. He can't -- 

He holds on *tighter* -- 

"I'm right here, baby boy. I'll always be right here --" 

"N-no --" 

"Yes. Now look at me, chicken. Look at me and see me givin' you the *truth*." 

Tim's eyes are -- closed. He opens them. He opens them -- 

And Matches is looking at him with *patient* hunger, with -- he -- 

His eyes are so *dark* like this, and the sweat at his temples looks so normal, so *right* -- 

Tim wants to *taste* -- 

He opens his mouth -- 

"Shh, not yet," Matches says, and chokes him again. 

Tim *claws* at Matches' arm, and he can't -- he wants -- 

"You need to be doin' that to my *back*, chicken." And he's smiling now, hungry and *loose*, somehow -- 

Tim wants to nod, to -- 

But he has to hold on, doesn't he? Batman *needs* him to hold on, and that's -- 

He's what Batman needs. He has to be. He *always* has to be -- 

"Mm. Maybe to my *dick*..." 

Yes, and he'll give -- he'll hold on tight, tighter -- 

He'll squeezes Matches' forearm with all his strength, he'll show -- 

He's been strengthening himself, and trying -- trying so -- 

"Mm. Gonna bruise me soon, baby boy. You wanna show Daddy how strong you are?" 

Yes -- yes, *please* -- 

Matches sighs, long and -- and *hot* -- "Daddy knows, baby boy. Daddy's always known." 

He's -- but. Tim isn't -- this can't be --and he can't make a sound when Matches yanks him up and close -- 

Can't *help* when Matches spreads Tim's thighs over his own -- 

Can't *see* -- 

"Open your eyes for me, baby boy. Open 'em nice and wide -- there you are," Matches says, smiling so -- 

So *gently* -- 

"Daddy used to be *scared* of how strong you were. Daddy used to be..." Another sigh, and this one is so hot, so *close* -- 

Tim tries to get *closer* -- 

And Matches *grunts*, yanking Tim closer still and nuzzling his open mouth, nuzzling and *tickling* with his mustache -- 

His mouth is so hard -- 

His hand -- 

Flowers -- 

"Breathe," Matches says, low and rough and hungry, so *hungry*, and Tim has to nuzzle back, has to chafe his mouth on Matches' mustache -- 

Rub and scrape, and there's stubble, there's always stubble, and Tim's always wanted to *feel*, Matches has to let him -- "*No*!" 

But Matches is holding Tim *away* from himself, holding --*gripping* Tim's throat, but not choking, not -- "Breathe." 

Tim pants and tries -- 

There's something -- his *cheeks* are wet -- 

"M-Matches --" 

"Breathe for Daddy, baby boy. Nice and slow and easy," he says, and his eyes are so -- steady, not calm. He's *hungry*, and he's *waiting*, and he's -- 

Tim breathes --

And Matches takes a *ragged* breath. "Good. Again." 

Tim *breathes* -- 

And Matches *licks* Tim's cheeks, and the skin beneath Tim's eyes --"Keep going. Just like that." 

"Yes. Yes," Tim says, and keeps breathing, keeps -- 

If he can just hold on to *something* --but the thought feels disconnected, like something floating in the air *vaguely* close to Tim's head, but in no way tethered to him. He doesn't need -- 

He's holding on to Matches. To -- "Daddy?"

Matches growls -- and smiles. "Yours, baby boy." 

"I -- I don't..." And Tim *tries* to shake his head -- 

"Don't make Daddy hurt you again, yet." 

Tim moans, long and *loud* -- 

Moans and *arches* -- 

He wants to know what his *expression* is -- but he knows. He knows *exactly* how much Matches wants him now, and how much -- what it feels like to plead. 

"Baby *boy*... mm. All right. If you're a good, smart boy in the next few minutes? I'll hurt you again." 

Tim moans *again* -- "Yes. Yes, Matches." 

Matches parts his lips -- and licks them. His mustache is mussed, and that seems so *correct*. It's *right* for Matches' mustache to be mussed when he's making love to one of his beautiful boys. It's right for this *moment* -- trumping, again, the missing stick and clothes and sunglasses. 

A simple thing, but so *perfect* for the verisimilitude -- and then Tim remembers that they have no audience for this but the cameras, that there is nothing happening here which is for anyone but them, and the rest of the family when -- 

Whenever they desire it. 

Tim licks his lips and squeezes Matches forearm -- 

"Yeah, you're ready for me. I can *feel* it, chicken," Matches says, and sighs. "I can feel it all through me. Feel it makin' me *hurt* --" 

"Oh --" 

"Shh. Think back for me. Back when you asked me about gettin' hot for you *fighting* me." 

For a moment, it feels like there's a *wall* between himself and that moment, or at least a gulf of *years*. Tim knows intellectually that it was less than ten *minutes* ago -- 

That Matches had *broken* -- him --

Tim whimpers, hands spasming on Matches' forearm -- no, he can move them, be strong --

"Easy now, chicken. You know better than that now, doncha?" 

His hands spasm *again* -- 

His breath hitches in his *throat*, and for a moment it just sticks there, *holds* there, and he can't seem to make *use* of it. Matches *isn't* choking him anymore, but he *could* be -- he. 

He could be, right now, and Tim could take it, have it for himself, *feel* it --

So *warm* --

And it's not, ultimately, a surprise that he's stroking Matches' forearm again, that he's seeking out the grain of the thick, black hair and following it, studying -- caressing --

But Matches isn't saying anything. He -- is it not right? Should he stop? Go back to simply clutching? He doesn't -- 

He can't see -- his eyes are closed. That. Tim *opens* his eyes, and studies Matches, and -- moans, loudly, when Matches smiles and nods in open approval. 

"Such a smart baby boy. I knew you could get that one." 

Tim smiles helplessly and clutches despite himself -- and *grunts* when Matches presses his thumb into Tim's suprasternal notch. Presses and *holds*, and his thumb is too big for that --

It feels like being choked all over again -- 

It feels like being *teased* with what he *wants* --"Please --" 

"Shh. You have to work for me a little more first, chicken. You ready?" 

Tim swallows -- and moans again. "Yes, Matches." 

Matches grins. "All right. Now you're thinkin' about that comment about fightin' me --" 

"I'm sorry --" 

"Shh, not that, chicken." 

"I -- but --" 

"Not that. Daddy didn't teach you right before now, remember? *Nobody* taught you right." 

Tim shudders -- 

"Yeah, like that. But you're pickin' all this up just as fast as you should, baby boy. You're the smartest little baby boy I *know*."

"I want -- I want. That." 

Matches grins and -- nuzzles him again before pulling back. "That's good, chicken -- 'cause it's what you *got*. Get it?" 

Tim flushes and nods. "Yes, Matches." 

"Good boy. Now, you're thinkin' back, right?" 

"Yes, Matches. I was. You said that you *would* be aroused by me fighting you... but." 

"There ya go. Now what were you supposed to do?" 

Tim *shivers* -- "I was supposed to ask a question --" He can do better than that. "I was supposed to ask you what you would prefer to fighting me, and why you would prefer it." 

Matches grins again. "And why is that?" 

That -- is not a difficult question. "Because it's the question I most desired an answer to in that moment." 

"More than knowing what happened to me tonight...?" 

And there is -- there's a *pang* for that, a *need* -- "I'm not. I'm not a good Robin --" 

"Shh, not that, baby boy. We both know there are some things more important than that kinda thing, don't we?" 

Tim shivers and wants so much -- 

So *much* -- 

"I thought. I thought I could have... everything I needed. If I were just a good Robin." 

Matches parts his lips -- and then, after a moment, licks them *slowly*. "And what Daddy needed, too, chicken?" 

Tim doesn't swallow back the moan for that. He lets it *out*, all of it, and -- "I include that. In what I needed." 

A *pant* -- "Of course you do. A boy like you..." And Matches smiles again and shakes his head. "But we were talkin' about somethin'." 

"Yes, Matches. I'm sorry --" 

"Shh. We won't take care of *everything* that needs to be taken care of tonight, but we'll take care of one whole hell of a lot, baby boy. You trust me?" 

("You think ol' Matches doesn't know what you want right now, chicken? You think he doesn't know what you'd feel most *comfortable* with?") 

Tim shivers again and just -- "You were always so much *warmer*!" 

Matches growls and cups Tim's face with his free hand -- 

Squeezes with *both* hands -- 

And Tim lets his mouth fall open and the tip of his tongue slip out, lets himself *be* open, and obvious -- 

"You know Daddy wants you bad, baby boy..." 

Tim tries and fails to push closer -- 

"Daddy needs to just... eat you right up. Lick you and bite you and *suck* you." 

Tim's grunt goes *nowhere* --

And Matches yanks Tim close enough that he can breathe on Tim's ear, breathe hot and damp and good, so *good* -- "You're gonna give Daddy what he needs, baby boy..." 

Yes -- *yes* --

"And Daddy's gonna give you just... heh. Everything. Absolutely *everything*," Matches says, and licks Tim's ear, licks his way *inside*, licks and hums and slurps around Tim's *earlobe* -- "Pierce this." 

Tim bucks -- 

"Mmm. Yeah. Thought you'd like that." And Matches moves his hand from Tim's face -- 

Moves it to Tim's *ass* -- 

Squeezes with both hands and bites Tim's *other* earlobe -- 

Please -- 

"Pierce this, too."

Yes -- oh, but -- 

The flowers are blooming -- 

Matches is *caressing* Tim's ass --

And then he sighs and pushes Tim back, looking him over -- "Yeah. Breathe," he says, and eases his grip. 

Tim gasps once -- and then breathes, slowly and steadily. 

Matches smiles. "That's right. You're gonna be perfect when you're suckin' me off, aren't ya." 

Tim smiles helplessly -- no, he breathes, and breathes -- 

And watches Matches' smile turn hungry and *wild* -- and. 

It feels daring and strange and frightening to roll his hips against Matches', to *press* their groins together, but only to the smallest and most angrily muttering parts of himself. The rest of him feels right, feels *perfect* -- 

And more perfect than that when Matches growls, hand *spasming* on Tim's throat. 

"Oh -- yes, Matches --" 

"Shh. Not yet. Not yet, chicken."

Tim licks his lips and studies Matches, watches --

There is a line on his forehead that, when Tim was thirteen, seemed to speak of *great* anger. It took a painfully long time to realize that the line only meant that Bruce was fighting with himself about something -- and not necessarily with anger, as opposed to with all the control he could bring to bear -- but... he is fifteen now, and he knows --

"Matches... I want to help." 

Matches growls *softly* -- 

Tim's penis twitches again -- 

And Matches chuckles. "You think you're not helpin' already, chicken?" 

"I --" 

"You think you're not makin' me feel so good I can't *stand* it?"

That -- Tim studies Matches more, studies the tension in his shoulders, his neck, his *hands* -- 

Tim can *feel* --

"Matches..." 

Another laugh. "Baby *boy*. You don't know enough about how Daddy *gets* when he's hard." 

"Please. I want to, I *want* to --" 

"You want everything." 

"*Yes* --" 

"You're gonna have it," Matches says, and his smile is so sharp, so *dark* -- 

Tim shivers and rocks his *hips* -- 

"No, hold still." 

"I'm sorry --" 

"Shh. I -- heh. Tell you what. I'll let you *know* when you have somethin' to apologize for." 

Tim blinks and tries to wrap his mind around --

"I know, a boy like you -- you think you always got somethin' to be sorry for. You think --" 

"Just -- only with *you*." 

Matches -- pauses. And smiles. "Yeah, baby boy...? All right. That actually dovetails *real* neatly with somethin' else we gotta talk about," he says, and squeezes Tim's ass again. "That... but we're not there, yet." 

Tim pants. "Yes, Matches. I need to know... I don't understand about the... apologies. Not... entirely." 

"I know, baby boy. You're thinking about those other guys in me. How *they* sometimes think you have somethin' to apologize for. Yeah?" 

Tim blushes hard -- "Yes. I -- I won't. Apologize for that. Right now." 

"Heh. Good boy. I *understand*. You've always wanted to be a good boy for *someone* -- and when I got my hands on you, you wanted to be even better than *that*. Yeah?" 

"Yes, Matches --" 

"Try this on for size: You've always *been* a good boy for me. Sometimes? You've been *too* good. *Sometimes*, you got so good at being what those other guys made you *think* they needed that you stopped being what they *really* needed. And that's what you wanna apologize for, more than anything else." 

Tim moans -- "Yes -- *yes* --" 

"You're too good for that, chicken. You're too *right*," Matches says, and emphasizes his words with a quick and *harsh* squeeze for Tim's throat -- 

"Nnk -- *oh* --" 

"Yeah. See, you were *made* to be trained by the right man. You were ready, willing, and more able than *anyone* else *could* be --" 

"No --" 

"Shh, baby boy. Just listen," Matches says, and looks *into* him. So --

So *deeply* -- 

"Listen to what Daddy's saying to you just like you always needed to. Just like you always *craved*." 

Tim digs his *nails* in against Matches' forearm -- 

Matches shows his *teeth* -- and squeezes Tim's throat again, *slowly* increasing the pressure more and more -- 

Tim can't look away from his *eyes* --

"Not gonna breathe, at all, are ya, chicken," he says, and holds the squeeze just at the point beyond which Tim *wouldn't* be able to breathe. He --

"Do you want me to?" 

Matches stares at him *hard* for a long moment -- and smiles, broad and wide and wet. "Take a sip of air, chicken. Just one." 

"Yes, Matches," Tim says, and does so -- 

And then Matches goes back to squeezing slowly, so *slowly* -- 

It's so warm, and so --

Tim can feel every place on his throat which will bruise -- 

A part of his mind is only readying the rueful-proud expressions he'll wear to suggest an entirely different *sort* of successful teenaged sexuality -- should anyone ask -- 

The rest of him is here, only here, and Matches' eyes should always be this dark and warm and *hot*, all at once --

"You were made for me, chicken. Soft, bleeding heart and tight little ass. Dark mind and sharp eyes. Hard hands and harder *dick*. Everything about you was right -- and those other guys didn't know how to *use* you. They trained you wrong, chicken. They *taught* you wrong -- and if that was the *only* thing they'd ever done wrong, I'd still hate 'em. But we both know there was more, don't we?" 

Tim mouths 'yes' -- 

"Good boy. *Smart* boy. So here's this lesson: since the thing you wanna apologize for, over and over and *over* again, is not bein' right for Daddy, not bein' that beautiful *little* boy you used to be before those other guys got their hands on you...?" 

Tim tries to breathe so he can answer -- no. He waits. 

He waits, and he feels, and he *gives* himself to the hand around his throat -- 

He can *be* right -- 

And Matches purrs and eases his grip just enough to let him breathe. "Go on, chicken. Gimme the answer." 

"Yes, Matches. Because I want to apologize for something which isn't my fault and couldn't have *been* my fault... I clearly need instruction about what would constitute proper subjects for apology, and proper timing for the *offering* of apologies. I will wait for you to teach me." 

Matches... exhales. With a *shudder*. "Good boy."

And Tim licks his lips. "I want -- you're very hard." 

"I've been harder. And I'll *be* harder once you touch me." 

Tim's hands *jerk* on Matches' forearm -- 

"Leave 'em there." 

"Please -- please." 

Matches sighs. "That's real nice, baby boy. Real... mm. Used to think you'd *never* beg me like that." 

Tim opens his mouth -- 

"Even with all the pretty noises you made up in your bed. Even then. Those other guys -- they can make a man real damned *dumb* when it comes to the important stuff. You understand?" 

And that -- he has to answer Matches' questions, and he has to answer them *well*. "Yes, Matches. I've observed... the others failing to take advantage of -- or, seemingly, even note -- the cues and clues provided by --" 

"Those beautiful boys...?" 

Tim shivers and thinks of Steph -- "And. And --" 

"The beautiful girls, too, yeah. That's about right," Matches says, and grins. "Sometimes a man can get *extra* dumb around the people he loves. The people he needs more than *anything*." 

Tim flushes and doesn't -- but. "Because he knows how much he needs them?" 

"Nope. Because he *thinks* he knows how much he needs 'em -- and that scares the hell outta him. If he *knew* how much he needed 'em -- how much he *really* needed 'em -- he'd never let 'em go." 

"You... didn't know how much you needed. Me?" 

Matches shakes his head and grins. "*One* of the things Daddy needs you for is to *show* him how much he needs you, chicken. You used to know that just fine." 

Tim shivers again and -- doesn't apologize. He continues meeting Matches' eyes, instead, and he waits -- 

And Matches doesn't make him wait long. He nods in approval and caresses Tim's ass more, and more -- 

Tim holds himself *still* -- 

"Good boy. Such a -- mm." He squeezes Tim's buttocks hard, left then right. "Those other guys. They made you think you weren't *supposed* to tell 'em the truth." 

Tim flushes hard. He can't -- 

"They talked a good game, baby boy. Talked about the *Mission* and *partnership*. Yeah?" 

"Yes --" 

"And then they turned around and *hid* themselves from you. Hid *me* from you. They only touched you with bare hands when they *had* to --" 

Tim doesn't *flinch* -- 

"-- and they made you think that was all they wanted. All they could *stand*." Matches sighs and pushes his huge, hot hand *into* Tim's boxers. 

"*Oh* --" 

"Yeah. You... mm. We all learned a lot about how to lie over the years. Me and the other guys, you..." Matches shakes his head. "You don't have one single scar here, chicken," and Matches rakes his short nails over Tim's ass -- 

Tim holds himself *still* --

"You don't know how many times Daddy dreamed of licking you here, and biting you..." 

Tim *moans* -- 

"Givin' you nice little suck-marks -- or big ones. Somethin' for you to feel whenever you sat down on a good, hard chair. Somethin' to make you *look* for hard chairs to sit on. Somethin' to make you *squirm* -- just like you're doin' right now." 

Fuck -- Tim *stills* himself -- 

And Matches chuckles. "Good boy. *Pretty* boy. You *need* to move for Daddy, doncha." 

"I -- I can be still --"

"Yes or no, chicken." 

Tim moans and -- honesty. Even though Tim thinks the lie would be more arousing. "No, Matches. I -- not yet." 

Matches raises his eyebrows -- and looks Tim over slowly and -- 

And with *care*. It's *exactly* like being touched -- molested -- and -- "Ah. 'Yet' is approaching rapidly." 

"Not from me touchin' you... but from me *seeing* you," Matches says with a *thoughtful* purr under his voice. "That is very, very interesting, baby boy. And very *you*." 

Tim doesn't know whether to thank Matches or *apologize* -- no. Matches will tell him if he has something to apologize for. Matches will -- teach him. "Yes, Matches. I've always wanted you to see me. To -- the real me." 

Matches' smile is *narrowly* hot. "That's a real *familiar* desire, baby boy." 

Tim blinks -- and blushes. And doesn't apologize. "Yes, Matches." 

Matches nods. "Back to brass tacks. Why didn't I want you to fight me...?" 

A test -- and more teaching. Tim can do this. "Because I've been fighting... the others, in one way or another, since we met --" 

"More." 

"Because honesty brings -- brings intimacy --" 

"That's just right. More." 

"Because -- because if I'm open for you, if I give you all of myself, you. You." 

"Say it." 

Tim flushes -- no, he can do this. "You'll be happy. Pleased. *Pleasured*." 

Matches *purrs* again -- "Good boy. More." 

"Because rape doesn't have to be violent in order to be -- pleasurable." 

Matches chuckles. "Am I raping you, baby boy...?" 

"I'm. I'm an emotionally traumatized fifteen-year-old. Yes." 

"Are you enjoyin' yourself?" 

Tim moans. "Yes. Please. Please don't stop --" 

"I won't. *Ever*. Gimme more." 

"Because partners *shouldn't* fight each other --" 

"Partners, hunh. Is that all we are?" 

Tim... stares at Matches. For a moment, it's the only thing he can do, and the only thing he can *feel* are Matches' hands on him. His throat and his ass. 

He'll have *bruises* --

He'll *hurt* tomorrow -- and a lot sooner than that. A lot --

If he's intelligent. 

If he's *right*. 

If he -- "You. You already gave me the answer to that question."

"Did I, chicken...? Are you sure?" 

And he isn't for a moment, he can't be, he could *never* be certain of this, of anything *like* this, because it's Bruce, and he's only Robin because Jason Todd was murdered, because Batman needed *a* Robin, and he was good *enough* -- 

He was *there* and could be *made* good enough, shaped and *twisted* -- 

Twisted away from what Matches wanted.

Needed.

Needed -- 

Tim feels himself blush harder, feels himself *sweat* and *shake*, but -- "Daddy needs me." 

Matches smiles, broad and so *pleased* -- "What do *you* need, chicken...?" 

"I need. I need my Daddy --" 

"How much?" 

"Please --" 

"How *much*." 

Tim *clutches* Matches' forearm. "More. More than anything. I haven't -- I've never --" 

"Drake was never your Daddy. Was he." 

"He was never -- he wasn't *anything*!" 

Matches parts his lips. "Not like me...?" 

"Even the others -- they -- *please*!" 

"What are you beggin' for, chicken?" 

"Please let me -- please make me -- I don't know --" 

"Shh, you do. You know everything -- just about. And Daddy'll teach you the rest." 

"*Please*!" 

"Ask for it, chicken," Matches says, and starts -- starts stroking the top of Tim's *cleft* -- 

"*Ohn* --" 

"Ask for what you *want*." 

Tim pants -- but. It's just one more step. It's *barely* one more step -- "Be my -- my *Daddy*." 

"I am." 

Tim *moans* -- "Make me your son!" 

And Matches exhales on a growl. "You are, baby boy. And I'm gonna make you *feel* it," he says, stroking down and pushing *in* -- 

Tim *shouts* --

"Feel that burn, chicken?" 

"Daddy -- *Daddy* --" 

"Feel me *fuckin'* you?" 

"Yes!" 

"That's just one finger now... but you'll *get* more, baby boy. Just trust me," Matches says, and starts to *thrust* -- 

Tim grunts -- 

And grunts *again* -- 

*Again* -- "Please -- *please*!" 

Matches licks his lips. "Whatcha beggin' for now, chicken? Tell me all about it..." And he keeps thrusting, keeps *pushing* -- 

It's so hot, so -- 

Matches' finger is so thick, so *deep* --

"Lubricant!" Oh, but -- 

Matches raises his eyebrows. "Right now...?" 

Tim groans in *relief* at Matches' skepticism. "No, please! I just -- I want more -- I mean -- lubricant before more fingers --" 

"And you want those more-fingers as soon as *possible*, doncha." 

"*Please*!" 

Matches chuckles and *crooks* his finger -- 

Tim cries out -- 

"Take *this*, baby boy. Take this just as sweet as we both know you can... and wait for the rest." 

Tim pants -- "Yes, Daddy, I -- please -- please -- oh, I can't stop --" 

"You can't stop workin' those pretty little hips, by the feel of it..." 

And Tim hears himself make a *questioning* sound -- but then *he* can feel it, feel the way he's moving, the way he's -- taking. He's *showing* Matches the rhythm he wants -- no. He's *demanding* the rhythm he wants, the rhythm he *always* gives himself when he fucks himself with no lubricant but saliva and sweat -- 

He wants -- 

"Is it -- please --" 

"Yeah, baby boy...?" 

Tim groans and shudders -- 

"Ask, c'mon. Gimme everything," Matches says, and crooks again -- 

"*Yes*!" 

Matches *grunts* -- "Now. Do it now, baby boy." 

"I -- I want -- please tell me if this is right!" And Tim can't look at Matches, can't no, he has to show Matches, has to see -- 

Has to see Matches licking his lips and starting to sweat -- and staring at him like he's beautiful, like he's -- 

Wanted needed -- 

"Faster, chicken. Work -- yeah. *Yeah*, now it's right. Just --" He crooks *again* --

Tim *yells* -- 

"*Perfect*. Just perfect. Look down at my shorts now -- see that wet spot?" 

"*Yes*, Daddy --" 

"Thinkin' about you sucking on it, baby boy --" 

"Please --" 

"Thinkin' about shovin' these shorts in your pretty little *mouth* --" 

"*UNGH* --" 

"Yeah, you like that? Wanna get dirty for me?" 

"*Anything*!" 

"You wouldn't make enough noise that way, chicken. Daddy needs you to be *loud* --" 

"*Harder*!" 

Matches growls and pulls out most of the way, and Tim has enough time to realize that he *hadn't* been doing that, that he'd been *grinding* as much as thrusting -- 

That this will -- 

Matches thrusts *hard* -- 

And Tim throws his head back and screams, clenching hard and struggling not to move, not to -- 

But Matches *wants* him to move, and he can focus for a moment, he can breathe -- 

"That's right, baby boy..." 

He can count *off* the thrusts, so hard, so *hard* -- 

"You're almost there. I can *feel* it." 

He is, he *is*, and he can move for Matches, he can take *his* rhythm and give it back, show Matches how good he can be -- 

"Oh, *chicken*..." 

He can take that -- that appreciation, that *lust* -- 

He's so hard -- 

He's leaking so *much* -- 

"Look at me." 

Tim grunts mid-whimper -- his eyes were closed again. He can't *do* that. He has to -- 

"Do it *now*." 

He opens his eyes -- "I'm --" 

"*No*," Matches says, choking him *hard* -- and fucking him harder -- 

Faster -- 

So much --

And *every* thrust is deep, every thrust takes him further than anything but his *longest* toys, and -- 

And Tim is hot all over -- 

Tim is aching and hot, *needing* --

But he has it, *everything*, and he -- oh -- he mouths 'please don't stop' --

And Matches grins *savagely*. "I *won't*... son." 

Tim feels himself *seize* --

He tries to gasp and *can't* --

He feels so *hot* -- 

His rhythm *stutters* -- 

But Matches' rhythm never does. Matches doesn't pause or even *blink* -- not even when he crooks his finger again and Tim can't do anything but *try* to scream while he ejaculates. While -- 

While he *comes*, spattering the inside of his shorts again and again and clenching -- 

Trying to scream again and coming *more* -- 

Clenching again and coming *more* --

And then there's a *broken* wail, loud and cracked and *desperate* -- and the realization that Matches had needed to *hear* him makes Tim ejaculate one last time. 

And slump -- 

And get nowhere, because Matches is still holding Tim up with a *gentle* hand around his throat. He -- "Daddy..."

Matches growls and sounds *hungrily* pleased. "Right here, chicken. Tell me how you're doin'." 

Tim smiles helplessly and tries to fix his posture, his stance, something -- 

But Matches makes a small sound and lays Tim down, straightening Tim's legs after a brief moment of *tangible* observation and a stroke -- and then he tugs Tim's boxers off. 

Tim laughs again. "I -- I was hoping to use those to clean up --" 

"Not a chance," Matches says, and that was almost a *growl* --

But Tim knows it wasn't an *angry* growl when Matches leans in and starts to lick. To -- 

To lick him *clean*. That -- 

Tim licks his *lips* -- "Daddy..." 

"You thinkin' of ol' Matches as your Daddy, yet?" 

Tim flushes *deeply*. "I --" 

And Matches chuckles and licks a long and *meandering* stripe from the hollow of Tim's left hip to the tip of his still-mostly-hard penis. "You're thinkin' of how to be good for me." 

"Yes --" 

"You're gonna be just as good for me -- mm." Matches *swallows* Tim's penis -- 

"*Please*!" 

Sucks *hard* -- 

"Ohn -- oh, *please*!" And Tim can't keep himself from sitting up on his elbows, from staring at Matches, from *pleading* with him -- 

His blue eyes are so hot, so sharp, so *amused* -- 

Tim's penis isn't *ready* for this, and Matches knows it, knows -- 

Of *course* he knows how close Tim is to screaming again -- even if he *couldn't* see Tim clawing at the sheets, he would know what expressions like this one feel like from the inside, from -- 

"Jason --" Oh, no, no -- 

Matches pulls off with a slurp, so wet, so *hungry* -- 

Matches growls and breathes *hot* on the head of Tim's penis, which is even harder than it was -- 

Of *course* it's harder -- 

Of course -- 

Tim needs more contact *now*. It's just that he *also* needs to be left alone, to be -- 

He won't get that. He -- he *won't*, because Matches needs him, and, perhaps, needs to train him -- 

"Jay would curse a blue *streak* when I did him like that, chicken..." 

Tim wants to *apologize* -- no. No. He just -- he has to take that, and listen, and understand --

Matches chuckles and pulls back further, kneeling up -- 

Tim *whimpers* -- no -- 

"Shh, shh, it's all right. Daddy'll take care of you." 

"I -- when I. When I think of you the right way?" 

Matches licks his teeth, tilting his head to the side. "How long do you think I'll have to wait for *that*, chicken?" 

Tim whimpers *again*. He doesn't want to -- 

Matches has to *know* -- 

Tim can't be -- he can't just be *like* this -- 

"And now you're panicking a little," Matches says, and *moves*, lying down half on *top* of Tim -- 

Pressing Tim *down* -- 

And choking him. "Shh, baby boy. Just feel that." 

Tim hitches in a breath -- 

Tim *tries* to hitch in a breath -- 

Tim stops trying and -- stills himself, focusing on the feel of Matches' fingers hitting him in slightly different places and letting himself wonder if there will be different bruises -- 

More bruises to find ways to lie about -- 

He'll lie for *this* --

And Matches sighs and kisses Tim's temple. "There you are, chicken. You just focus on feelin' that. Lettin' it make you *right* inside." 

Yes, Daddy, anything, Daddy, just -- 

"Needed somebody to take you over, didn't ya." 

Yes, yes, yes --

"Needed somebody to..." Matches growls and *rolls* his hips against him, pressing his groin to Tim's leg -- 

Tim moans in his *mind* and presses *back* -- 

And Matches sighs. "If it was up to me... you'd never use *certain* words when you were talkin' to -- or *about* -- the Drakes." 

Tim feels himself *blush* -- 

He tries to *focus* on Matches -- 

And then he tries to take in the *ruefulness* of his smile, the softness -- 

Bruce? 

Tim reaches up to stroke Matches' face --

And Matches kisses Tim's fingers and shakes his head. "Put your hand down, baby boy." 

Yes, Matches. 

"You start touchin' me like that..." Matches sighs and leans in to lick Tim's mouth, fast and broad and *wet* -- "I'll lose control." 

*Oh* -- 

Matches leans back just enough to meet Tim's gaze, just enough to shadow *everything* -- "You want that, doncha. You wanna see ol' Matches *lose* it," he says, and smiles *warmly*. 

Yes. *Yes*!

Matches licks his lips. "Not like I don't understand *that*, chicken. It'll feel more real, yeah? Feel like I'm right there *with* you." 

Yes, oh, yes, please -- 

"Your eyes are so..." Matches growls. "Never thought they could tell me this much. *Show* me this much." 

I always -- 

Flowers -- 

I always *wanted* -- 

Matches growls *again*. "Don't wanna let go even a *little*..." 

*Please*! 

"I know, chicken. I know. Breathe anyway," he says, and eases his grip --

And Tim moans and tries not to -- no. He has to breathe, and that's what he does. He breathes, and he keeps his eyes open, and he lets Matches see everything, *have* -- 

He *gives* himself to Matches, because that's how -- 

Honesty breeds intimacy -- 

"You ready for me?" 

"Yes!" 

Matches licks his lips --"Look how sweet you are, how pretty and perfect..." 

Tim blinks -- 

And Matches chuckles again -- "Yeah, you've had a little too much oxygen for that. Here," he says, and squeezes hard -- 

*Daddy* -- 

"Mm. Want you to tell me what *that* look means --" 

Tim *mouths* 'Daddy' -- 

"Oh, yeah, chicken?" Matches *grins*. "I like that. That was... spontaneous." 

*Yes* --

"That was... mm. That was you thinkin' on the right *track*." 

I will, I'll do it, teach me -- 

"And you're so eager now, so..." Matches growls and pushes his groin against Tim's leg again. "You get me so crazy, chicken..." 

Tim wants to --

He's moaning *inside* --

And he's gripping Matches' forearm, stroking it because that was allowed before, because -- 

"Yeah, you need to touch me..." 

Yes!

"You need to *feel* me. My -- heh -- strength?" 

Please -- 

"Not strong at all around you, chicken. Can't keep myself --" Matches growls and turns away, panting hard for a long moment that Tim doesn't -- 

Understand. Oh. Is he -- will he -- 

And then Matches turns back, shuddering once, all over -- "Just me, chicken. You were... mm." He tilts his head to the side. "Were you worried?" 

Tim flushes --

"You were. It's okay. Those other guys... we're not done, yet -- no. We're not gonna *be* done. But we haven't gone far enough, yet. Not far enough to shut those other guys *up* completely."

That -- he'd seemed like -- 

"Didja think we were all on the same page?" And Matches' grin is wry. 

You *seemed* to be -- 

"Shh, it's okay. It's not like we *don't* all wanna fuck you through this mattress tonight --" 

Tim *bucks* -- 

"Even though some of us wanna do it *differently* than *others*..." 

*Please* -- 

"But it's my turn with you, baby boy. My turn to do you *right*. And the other guys... well, they're not all *okay* with that," Matches says, and licks Tim's temple -- "Mm. Salty there. *Fresh*. Wanna lick you all over..." 

Tim tries not to *squirm* -- 

"Yeah, I know, you don't want that right now. Too soft? Too sticky? Too gentle? Too all-of-the-above...?" Matches grins and licks his teeth again. "I'm *gonna* have to let the others have their turns with you..." 

Tim *jerks* -- 

"But you *don't* have to say yes to them. You don't ever... mm. They won't rape you like Daddy will, baby boy..." 

The grunt gets stopped in his *chest* --

And Matches' grin gets wider, harder, deeper --

Black --

"They won't -- mm. Those guys would wait for *you* to come to *them*, chicken --"

Tim *shudders* --

"Yeah. Yeah, *exactly*. And worse? Some of them would say no to you *anyway*. Or *try*."

Oh, but --

"Even though they want you. Even though they *need* --"

Flowers, so many --

"No. *Breathe*."

Tim gasps --

And gasps again --

And tries to fight past the images of Bruce turning away from him, *pulling* away --

Batman turning his *back* --

Tim moans in *pain* --

"Chicken, *chicken*, you -- " And Matches flares his nostrils. "You're thinkin' of those other guys. Those -- you're thinkin' of how they'd *treat* you. Right?"

"I -- I --"

"*Tell* me."

"Yes, Daddy --"

Matches growls -- "I'll tell you a secret, chicken -- you're not the only one gettin' an education tonight."

Tim blinks and tries to --

To --

"I -- you're." Tim licks his lips. "You're... removing the others' ability to -- no, they --"

"*Yes*."

"Matches, they'll still have plausible *deniability* -- *nnh* --"

And the bite to Tim's lip is hard, *vicious* --

Painful and so good, so *good* --

So much *better* with the taste of his own blood in his mouth --

Tim licks Matches' teeth --

And Matches pulls back. "You almost had it, chicken. You -- mm. You're almost there," he says, and licks his *own* teeth again. "Such a pretty little boy you are. Such a *smart* boy -- and maybe too smart for his own good --"

"But --"

"Because you're thinkin' about the others' using the *excuse* of the funky little thing that *brought* me here tonight... instead of thinking of all the ways I'm gonna get them to *show* you how much they need you."

That -- but --

Matches smiles and shakes his head. "You're still worried, aren't ya."

"I -- please. Please --"

"You're thinkin' -- no, tell me."

"I'm -- the -- I'm back to thinking about how I'm taking *advantage* of you, of you -- your *secrets* --"

Matches growls again --

And Tim is pinned, pressed to the bed with his wrists to either side of his head and his legs spread around Matches'. It -- "Please --"

"Need you. Need you bad, chicken..."

Oh -- Tim moans and nods, arches *up* --

"Need you to call me --"

"Daddy, I --"

"That's right, that's -- more."

"Daddy, please, make me not worry!"

Matches groans -- no. No, he'll get this right. He'll *make* himself right, *train* himself right the way --

The way he always should have been --

*Daddy* groans and stares at him with Bruce's eyes, and there's a moment of fear they *share* --

But Daddy had told him that Matches wouldn't *leave*, and Tim can hold onto that for a moment, just a *moment* --

It's enough. It's *enough*, because Daddy grins and growls and exhales like he can fill the air of Tim's bedroom with his confidence, with his need and lust and *knowledge* --

With the *truth* of everything he knows about what they need, what they both --

What they *all* need -- in this moment and *every* other --

"You need Daddy to take care of you. Don't ya."

"Yes!"

"You need... mm." And Daddy shifts, moves --

Presses his groin to Tim's --

*Rolls* his hips against Tim's --

"*Ohn* --"

He's so hard, so hot and hard through his boxer-briefs, and the wet spot on them is *cool* and --

"Daddy --"

"You need Daddy to make it *right*."

"*Please*!"

"Dick only tried to seduce those other guys *once*, baby boy."

"I --"

"Heh. He made 'em shake inside. Made 'em *tremble* right down where it *counted*," Daddy says, and *grinds* --

"Nuh --"

"Made 'em. Made 'em ache. And sweat. And *dream*."

"I -- but --"

"*But* -- those other guys managed to throw out some bullshit about certain things being *inappropriate*. Managed not to reach out and throw that sweet little boy down and fuck 'im 'til he *cried* --"

"That -- *that* --"

"Shh. Shh, shh, shh, baby boy..." And Daddy licks his lips and pants. "Got me so hard for you. Got me so -- mmph. Those other guys wouldn't have managed it a second time, chicken. Not if Dickie had come to them with his heart in his eyes again. Not if he'd *touched*."

Tim -- gasps. And blinks. "Touched where?"

Daddy grins. "Anywhere. Anywhere at *all*."

Tim swallows. "And. How did --" Oh. Not -- he winces --

"*Ask*."

And only apologize for what he's *supposed* to -- Tim nods. "Daddy -- Daddy, how did *Jason* seduce... the others?"

Matches' laugh is low and hard and -- dirty. So --

Tim *shivers* --

Matches opens his mouth -- and licks his *lips*.

"Please."

"Beg like that. Beg like that again, chicken."

"Please, Daddy. Please -- please keep looking at me --"

"Like I want you? Like I need you so bad my brain is leaking out the head of my *dick*?"

Tim inhales sharply -- and arches. Tries to arch --

He can't move Daddy.

He can't -- he *stops* --

"Tell me, chicken. Tell me --"

"I've always. I've always wanted you to look at me this way --"

And Daddy -- grins. Bright and wide and honestly *crazed* for a moment that doesn't make *sense* --

Until Tim remembers the way Bruce had looked at Jason sometimes. It -- Tim drinks the look *in*, and catches himself trying to arch for it again, trying to move for it, be *open* for it --

And Daddy presses his palms to Tim's abdomen --

Strokes up and up --

Pinches and *twists* Tim's nipples --

Tim whimpers and nods --

And Daddy pets and strokes him as the grin on his face shifts to something darker, something smaller and hungrier and --

Saner? Is that really the word he wants to use? Tim laughs because he can't *help* it --

And Daddy raises *both* of his eyebrows.

"I --" Tim bites his lip and blushes. "I -- take it that I'm not supposed to apologize?"

Daddy shakes his head *slowly*.

Tim hums and pushes up into Daddy's stroking hands. "And... I *am* supposed to share the joke?"

Daddy *nods* slowly, and his eyes are -- bright. *Hot*.

Tim bites his lip, wincing and *twitching* for the pain of it --

It will *hurt* to fellate him --

Tim twitches *again* --

"Oh, chicken... *now*."

Tim lets himself jump for that, inside and out -- "I -- was thinking that your grin looked more... sane. Than it had when you were grinning like one of... the others."

Daddy raises his eyebrows and kind of *purses* his lips.

Tim hums. "Perhaps you can see why I was amused."

Daddy cocks his head -- 'tilting' it is something only the others can do -- to the side and grins again. "How crazy do you need me, chicken? *Son*."

Oh. "I --"

"How crazy do you *want* me."

"Crazy. Crazy enough to --"

"Love you?"

"Fuck -- ah --"

"Jay was wide open, baby boy. Jay was..." Daddy flares his nostrils again and shakes his head before choking Tim again --

"Nnk --"

"He let me see everything in his beautiful eyes. He let me --" Daddy growls. "He *demanded* that I see everything in his eyes. In his *heart*. He grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and dragged me down and down until I couldn't see anything *else*," he says, and *releases* Tim --

"I -- you --"

"He wouldn't let me *hide*, baby boy. He wouldn't let me *run*."

"Fuck -- I can't -- I'm not --"

"You think you're not that brave."

"I'm -- I'm *not* --"

"You think you're not that *hard*."

Tim inhales and -- shudders. Just shudders, and tries to be right, tries -- "Daddy..."

And Daddy nods once. "Then think of it like this, chicken: Daddy *needs* you to be that kind of bold. That kind of *obvious*."

"*Oh* --"

"Daddy needs it... heh. Not *all* the time, now, chicken," Daddy says, and strokes Tim's cheek with the rough fingertips of one hand while he dips his *other* index finger into Tim's navel --

"Nn --"

"Not all the time. I --" He licks his lips again and tugs his index finger out again, sniffs it and licks it, *sucks* -- "Good boy. *Salty* boy."

Tim moans --

"Yeah. Most of the time Daddy'll need you to do just what *you* need to do, baby boy. To *be* just who you need to be. That quiet boy. That *subtle* boy."

Tim *pants* and nods *shakily* --

"That's such a tease. Like -- mm. Like jerking off with a cock ring on."

"Do you -- do you like that?"

"Sometimes, baby boy." And Daddy *shoves* two fingers deep into Tim's mouth. "And sometimes a whole *lot*."

"Mm! Mm-hm!"

"*Suck*."

Tim closes his eyes and does it -- no. He opens his eyes and sucks, sucks hard, sucks wet, sucks --

He slurps, and he hums, and he *licks* --

He thinks of his fantasies of Jason -- of *Jay* -- and he *stares* into Daddy's eyes as he works up saliva in his mouth, works it up and drools a little --

Daddy *pants* --

Tim narrows his eyes in a *particular* smile --

And Daddy's lips part like Bruce's had in the moments before he and Jay had disappeared from the One World gala --

From the opening of Lohengrin --

From Mackenzie Lowenstein-Brigham's eighteenth birthday party --

From everywhere, absolutely everywhere, and it's not as though Tim hadn't watched Jay, *too*, hadn't seen the *need* in his eyes --

The --

The *honest* need, and back then Tim had only known that it had been for Bruce. Now he knows that it had been for connection, for touch, for --

For *love*. The kind of love only Daddy can give, because Daddy is petting Tim again with his free hand, squeezing and pressing and --

And *measuring* him --

Lifting him by the obliques and digging bruises in with his fingertips --

Giving Tim his *mark*, and Tim has to groan for that, groan around Daddy's fingers and imagine being there with Daddy and Jay, being pressed close in the dark of some closet, some cloakroom or empty luxury box or guest room or --

Or *something*, something small, please *small*, something --

But Daddy pulls his fingers out with a *breathy* growl, and Tim feels himself *flush* --

Feels himself -- no. He's supposed to be open, to speak -- "Please, Daddy. Please. I want -- more."

"More of my fingers, chicken? Or maybe something else."

And --

Daddy's eyes are dark now, so --

Daddy's eyes are dark and *full*, but there's still a light of amusement deep within them, and there's still a *focus* in them, too. A need to -- teach. "You're -- you're helping me."

"Am I...?"

"You're helping me be *open*. And -- and more like --"

"You, baby boy," Daddy says, kneeling up and *gripping* himself through his boxer-briefs, squeezing *hard* -- "Nobody but you."

"But --"

"No."

Tim frowns --

And Daddy laughs, low and hungry and -- so *breathless*. "Jay never begged like that. Dickie never *would* beg like that -- we've *all* watched the footage of him making love to all *kinds* of people. Again and again and *again*."

Tim raises an eyebrow --

"You're thinkin' about fightin' me?"

Oh -- "Ah. Only in ways -- ah. Me-specific ways? I'm not -- I'm not saying no. To anything --"

Daddy... rumbles. And squeezes himself harder. "Then fight me."

Tim *stares* at his working hand --

The back of it is so *hairy* --

So *scarred* --

"*Talk* --"

"You don't know how Dick would beg *you*! Ah. That's the gist. Of what's currently on my mind," Tim says, and continues to stare at Daddy's hand --

Daddy spreads his *fingers* --

Tim *moans* --

Daddy *growls* -- and laughs. "Look up."

Tim inhales sharply -- and does so.

Daddy's eyes are hard again, dark -- and needy. "Would you get him for me, chicken?"

Tim *gasps*. "I --"

"Would you try to get him to come back home to me the way you did before you knew the *truth* about what those other guys had done?"

"I -- I -- do you --"

"I want everything from you," Daddy says, low and -- and *harsh*. "I want everything I can *get*. And everything *else*, too."

Tim feels the flush get darker on his face and shudders, needs -- "I -- I'll tell him --"

"*What*."

"I'll -- I'll *explain*, Daddy, explain that you -- that the others -- I don't have the words for it, yet --"

"But you will...?"

"*Yes* --"

Daddy licks his lips -- and pushes his boxer-briefs down, exposing his thick and *slick* penis --

His tight and *dark* scrotum --

He -- he *presents* his penis --

And Tim moans. "Please, Daddy, I want --"

"Come get it, baby boy. Come *take* what you want."

Tim shivers more and sits up, scoots back, moves until he's kneeling, until he's *not* touching Daddy anywhere --

It's so *cold* --

"I want. I want to go home with you," Tim says, and he can't look up, can't --

But Daddy has his chin --

Daddy is *forcing* him to look up --

"I'll never let you leave again, chicken."

Tim *grunts*. "I can't -- you can't --"

"Watch me. Now get down there and suck."

"Fuck -- I --"

"*Now*."

Tim groans and moves for it, moves because he needs this, because he --

Because Daddy needs him too much to *wait* anymore, to --

Even for more *lessons*, and he has to know Tim needs more, so *much* more --

Perhaps as much as he needs the slick and *hot* feel of Daddy's foreskin against the palm of his left hand --

His scarred and *hairy* thigh against the palm of his *right* hand --

Tim squeezes with *both* --

And Daddy leaks pre-ejaculate while Tim watches, while Tim leans in, while Tim licks --

Licks and licks and *licks*, because the taste --

The feel of it on the tip of his tongue, so wet, so *warm* --

The taste so *rich* --

And Daddy is panting again -- and gripping Tim's shoulder and the back of his head. Gripping --

Tim can smell sweat and cologne and penis and pre-ejaculate and his own semen, his own sweat, his own *bed* --

He can't --

He's groaning for it, and he *can't* --

He takes the head in and *sucks* --

And Daddy growls and starts to pet him again, pet him *while* he pants, while he --

Oh, he almost seems to be *gulping* air, and he's shaking --

Shaking so *hard* --

Is he --no, he *is* holding back, and that --

Tim has to show him that he doesn't *have* to, that he shouldn't, that he *never* should, and the fact that he has to hide his accessories better in this house doesn't mean that he doesn't still *have* them --

That he hasn't *used* them --

*Nightly* at times, when he's dreamed --

So *much* --

Tim moans and lets the sound open him, loosen him --

And then he goes down and swallows --

And goes down further --

"*Tim* --"

And *further*, until his nose is pressed to Bruce's groin, until the thick and almost *coarse* hair is scratching his lips --

His *face* --

Will it redden his skin? Will he be obvious?

Will Daddy --

No, Daddy will like it. Daddy will *love* it, love *him*, love him not being able to be anything but open and honest and --

Daddy *groans* --

Daddy pants and groans *again* --

"Oh, chicken... pretty little..." Daddy groans *again*, and now both of his hands are in Tim's hair, tugging --

*Pulling* --

"Gonna fuck you. Gonna fuck your. Your tight little --" And Daddy growls and pulls Tim *off* --

Tim whimpers and gasps around the head of Daddy's *penis* --

Daddy *grunts* --

Tim licks and pants and licks more, sucks and tries to go back down, tries --

"*Breathe*."

Tim's penis twitches *hard*, and he nods --

He *tries* to nod, but Daddy is holding his head still, Daddy --

Daddy is flushed and sweating --

Shuddering and *slick* --

And Tim can breathe, and breathe, and breathe in the scent of sex, all the sex he's -- *they're* having, finally --

Tim groans and *whimpers* --

"Can't -- can't wait --" And Daddy *pulls* him onto his penis, pulls him down and down and --

Tim *swallows* --

Daddy gasps and thrusts *as* he pulls Tim the rest of the way down --

Nose crushed again, *lips* crushed again --

But it doesn't last before Daddy is pulling him back, before Daddy is pulling *himself* back, and Tim is moaning, moaning so much, drooling without even *trying* --

"So good, chicken. So -- nnh. You don't know what you do to me, you don't -- I gotta show you, gotta make you *see* --"

And Tim thinks about trying to nod again --

But Daddy is already pulling him back on --

Already *thrusting* --

And thrusting --

And *grinding*, and Tim has to swallow, has to swallow again and *again*, and Daddy's penis is so much warmer than the toys, so much more forgiving to his throat, so much more *natural* --

"Waited -- waited for this --"

Yes --

"Needed it so *bad*, Tim --"

*Yes* --

"Every. Every time you pursed that pretty little -- tight little --" Daddy growls and speeds up, holding Tim's head *brutally* still --

So perfect --

He must be --

This must be just the right way, just the right *feeling*, because Daddy is grunting over and over now, Daddy's palms are sweating more than they were *before*, and Tim's mouth is slick with sweat and saliva and pre-ejaculate --

"*Need* you --"

Please --

"Do anything -- pretty -- you don't *know*, you don't --"

Teach me!

"And the way you *look* at me. You -- you had eyes just like that when you came to me, baby boy. When you -- ah, fuck, I *can't* --" And Daddy thrusts even --

Daddy *fucks* him faster, fucks him harder and --

Harder and hungrier and *sweeter*, somehow, sweeter with the pain from Tim's bitten lip, the taste of fresh blood with all the pre-ejaculate, the drag of Daddy's penis, so thick and *slick* --

He's *making* it slicker, easing the *way* for Daddy, giving him --

He can give Daddy everything, everything he wants, everything he *needs*, and he won't have to *guess*!

Daddy will *tell* him, and show him --

Daddy will *work* him, and if there's something Tim *can't* give right away, Daddy will teach him *how* to give it in the future, how to give it --

"*Tim*!"

\-- perfectly. As perfect as the blush on his face, as the *noise* of this, dirty and wet --

The pain --

The *heat* --

"Lettin' me -- so --"

And Daddy shoves in, shoves in so deep and hard and *fast* that Tim *gulps* more than swallows --

Tim's throat feels bruised inside and *out* --

And being sensitive like this, *hurting* like this is the best way to feel while Daddy is growling and gripping him, while Daddy is growling and *ejaculating*, one *rough* spasm after another after *another* --

Tim swallows and groans in his *chest* --

Tim swallows and --

And *needs* --

So *much* --

"Know -- I *know* --" And Daddy shudders *hard* and pulls back, pulls *out* of Tim's throat --

Tim whimpers and *sobs* -- and sobs his gratitude when Daddy ejaculates in his mouth.

There's only a little fluid, but Tim needed it, *needs* it, needs *this* taste, so thick on his tongue, so slick and gamy and male, so warm and --

Sex, it's *sex*, and he's *had* it with --

Not Bruce.

Not Batman.

Not --

He's had it with his Daddy, *only* his Daddy, the man who needs him, who's always needed him, and that means it's all right to moan just like this, to pant and --

No, he needs more, needs --

Tim sucks, slurps and *sucks* --

And Daddy growls and thrusts back into Tim's *throat*, holding himself there while he pants --

While Tim *shakes* --

And, after a moment, Daddy starts to pet him, soothing and rough at once. So --

He makes Tim *feel* all the sweat on his back, feel the way he's *shivering* for his Daddy's touch --

Please *more* --

"That was..." And Daddy licks his lips and smiles, sharp and hungry and satisfied all at once. "That was just right, baby boy."

Tim shivers *harder* --

And Daddy grips Tim's shoulders and squeezes. "You made Daddy lose his mind for a little while..."

Please. Please *always* --

"That's what you like, I know. We've already *established* that," Daddy says, grinning wide and *wet* and stroking Tim's cheekbones with his thumbs. "But I think you need to know how *much* you made me lose it." And he raises his eyebrows.

Tim... presses his lips harder against Daddy's groin --

And Daddy takes a shuddering breath. "Yeah, chicken? It's like that? You need to be just that sweet to Daddy?"

Tim nods and presses his lips to Daddy's groin again --

*Again* --

He has to make Daddy *understand* --

"Gonna. Gonna have me ready to go again *real* damned soon like this, chicken..."

Tim's penis twitches *hard*, making everything lurch inside him, making him feel empty, needy, not touched *enough* --

"Oh... look at that flush. Look... mm. All right, we can save at least *some* of the serious chit-chat for *later*," Daddy says, pulling out --

"*Please*!"

"Yeah. I like that begging. I like it --" Daddy licks his lips and *moves* Tim onto his hands and knees facing the headboard -- and the miniature camera Tim had planted there for Bruce himself.

The camera --

"You *smile* at that camera when you're fucking yourself sometimes, baby boy..."

Tim flushes *harder* --

"You smile so loose and easy and *open*..."

"For -- for --"

"Me? Or for anyone smart enough to walk up in here and take what you're offering?"

Tim shudders and hangs his head --

But Daddy laughs and *pats* Tim's ass. "Don't worry so much, chicken. Daddy knows *exactly* what kind of boy you are. What kind of good and sweet and *loving* boy you are. Mm. Boy like you... all kinds of good men -- *strong* men -- go running through the back of your mind when you get needy enough. Don't they."

"Daddy --"

"Yes or no."

Tim moans and grips at the pillows -- "Yes, Daddy. I -- yes."

"Not just those other guys. Not just your brother. Not even just those pretty and *colorful* boys your brother has you runnin' around with on the weekends --"

"Daddy --"

"My baby boy's got needs," Daddy says, and spreads Tim's *ass*.

"I --"

"Doesn't he."

Tim -- wants to bite his lip.

Wants to *squirm*.

Wants to -- but, more than that, he doesn't want to move, and he doesn't want to fight, and he -- "I want. I want you to know everything about me, Daddy."

Daddy sighs and *digs* into the meat of Tim's ass with his thumbs. "That so, chicken?"

"Yes. Please --"

"Then tell me... you know what to tell me."

Tim licks his lips -- and looks up at the camera. "I have needs. I have -- I've always been -- needy."

Daddy takes another shuddering breath. "Tell me what you need. Tell me *exactly* what you need."

Tim pants and -- "I need to be fucked. Hard. I -- possibly repeatedly." 

Daddy *growls*. "I think I can work with that -- especially since you have never *once* been *any* needier than *any* of the men inside little ol' me... son."


End file.
